Moving On

When I got to the parking lot of the Church of Christ the Conqueror thrift store, it was a mess. I must not have been the first person that Old Gary told about the donation drop. All around the bin were scattered bags leaking their wares onto the dew-damp pavement. With a half-defeated sigh, I went up and started kicking through the bags looking for whatever I could find. Old Gary hadn’t been lying. It was a big donation; however, unless I was an eight-year-old girl who was really into horses, there wasn’t much for me. Disappointed, I picked up several of the bags and tossed them into the bin. I may be a bum, but I try not to be a dirty bum. I was raised better than that.

Tossing the last bag into the bin, I spied the tops of a pair of boots in the corner. Enterprising opportunists like me had quickly learned that while the sides of these containers were sheer and difficult to climb, you could do it by propping open the side chute and using the handle as a foothold. It was easy except that if you wanted anything deep in the container you had to lift the top and then lean in as far as you could without going all in—especially if you were alone at the time. If you passed the center of gravity, you were taking a quick one-way trip into the container and would have to wait for someone to come and help you out or pray you’d survive the ride once the container was picked up.

Anyway, I opened the bin and leaned in. I could just get my fingertips to brush the top laces of the boots I’d seen. I stretched and reached as far as I could, trying to get enough purchase to start working them up out of the mess and try for a proper grip. I’d just missed the laces for the fifth time when I lost my balance and slid over the edge face first into the mound of trash bags, loose sweaters, old lamps, and boxes of dusty books. Instinctively, I raised my arms up to shield my face from the impact, but instead I sluiced through the bags like an Olympic diver. As I passed the surface layer of donations, I didn’t stop. I braced for an impact that never arrived, instead I just continued a slow but steady descent. The bin couldn’t have been more than seven feet tall, and my five-foot seven-inch frame fell a lot further than that. It was dark, but I could feel the pressure of countless bags against my arms and the hard edges of loose lamps, toys, and God knows what else on the way down.

I descended long enough to get bored. Eventually, I became aware of a soft glow coming from beneath me that was growing steadily brighter. Without much in the way of warning, the bags gave way and I found myself surfacing from an unfamiliar, open-air donation pile. Where I had been falling into the bin in Bear’s Grin, I now stood waist deep in a bin somewhere completely different. It was bright for one thing, and the heat was unbearable. Regardless of when or why, the dirty field jacket and insulated pants I had on were not doing me any favors. I climbed out of the bin and turned to dig around for something more appropriate. I found a pair of not too tight jeans and a short-sleeved shirt in one of the bags. Plus, to my amazement, I also found the boots that led me into this predicament—two sizes too small of course.

Gathering my new clothes, I went around the corner to find somewhere I could change out of sight. Drifters are typically seen as a nuisance at the best of times. Naked ones are just asking to be harassed by the cops. I did not need a night in jail or worse.

Once dressed, I decided to get my bearings and try to figure out where I’d wound up. I didn’t have time for why now, I just wanted to know how to get back to my tent and my meager pile of possessions. I went back to the donation bin and dug down but found only the steel bottom of the bin. Cautiously, I worked my way around the building it was beside. I found myself on an awfully familiar Main Street. While every town in America has a Main Street, you can always recall the one you grew up on. For me it was Main Street in Fairbanks, Iowa. This was that street down to the corner gas station and bank. Come to think of it, that bank had closed before I left school. This version of the bank was enjoying a steady stream of traffic.

I’d had my share of benders and pharmaceutically enabled trips, but traveling across the country by way of magic donation bin was new. If I remembered, the mission that sponsored the thrift stores in Fairbanks was just a couple of blocks away at the First Revolutionary Church of God. A short walk later and I was inside the mission. Like the uncrowded facility in Bear’s Grin, this one was fairly empty. There were a handful of thin gray Vets and a few professional tramps being overseen by an army of white-haired old women in handmade dresses. As a kid, my grandmother would often drag me down to these places on Sunday afternoons where she would sing songs about the Lord’s valor and his eventual reconquest of the earth. I went up to the counter and grabbed an apple and a glass of water and sat down at a table with an unoccupied newspaper.

I scanned the already yellowing paper and nearly shot all the water I’d just drank out my nose when I saw the date. Not only had I somehow gone from an Idaho winter to an Iowa summer, but the year printed in bold black type showed fifty years ago. I turned through the pages, looking for the date in other articles, ads, and locations expecting it to have been a printing error, but the date was consistent everywhere I looked. It was indeed a brilliant Saturday afternoon in July in Fairbanks, Idaho.

“Excuse me,” I said to one of the women cleaning tables. “What is today’s date?”

“Sure,” she grinned. “Today is Saturday the 12^th of July.”

She saw the look of confusion on my scraggly face and was gracious enough to confirm the year that was in the paper as well. I thanked her and settled my head down into my hands. This was crazy. There was no way this was real.

“Oh, don’t worry, the Lord is still watching us, no matter how long we may have strayed away,” she said. I felt her reassuring hand on my back as she started praying at me.

“Thank you,” I said when she had finished.

While the results of the prayer are dubious, her calm reassurance and gentleness did lend me some resolve. If this was truly fifty years into my past, then I needed to make the best of the opportunity. I should find my younger self and have a chat. I would explain the mistakes I’d made in my life and maybe give him a different life.

“Is there a place where I can clean up ma’am?” I asked.

“Sure, is sweetie,” she replied.

***

After a shower and shave, I dressed and went to where I spent every summer of my youth—the Fairbanks Park baseball diamond, deep right field.

I had forgotten just how much I hated playing baseball as a kid. My mom insisted that I sign up for the leagues every year because I think that’s what she thought I was supposed to do. I never held it against her, she was doing her best. God, I hated it. She thought I enjoyed the game. Little did she know that I would have been happier just riding my bike or watching Saturday morning cartoons. Standing here watching myself in deep, deep right field, I wonder how she could have thought I was having fun. The boredom and disinterest is clear from the way I’m looking at the trees, picking dandelions, or, and I had forgotten about this, spinning as fast as I can to make myself dizzy.

I scrounged together enough change for a soda at the refreshment stand. I was lucky the kid at the counter didn’t look too hard at the dates on the coins I used. I took my paper cup of soda and found a place to sit where I could watch the game and think about what I wanted to tell myself once I had the chance. I scanned the crowd of parents and didn’t see my mom. This must have been one of the games where I rode my bike over when she was working as church custodian. That was good, it would be easier to approach myself without having to produce something to say to the parent.

As I thought about what to say to my younger self, I had to chuckle when I realized that I had no doubt that my younger self would believe the old, gray, bedraggled me from the future. I’ve always wanted something like this to happen. Even at seven I was obsessed with science fiction stories and prayed that I could experience the thrill and excitement of encountering aliens or traveling through time like the actors and characters in my favorite books and television shows. I could picture myself hanging on every word from this creepy old man from the future.

What would I say? What is it that I need to warn my younger self against? Do I talk about investing in stocks or betting on sportsball games? I bet if I were pressed, I could produce at least a couple of winners. Or do I focus on helping him to avoid my failures? Do I tell him not to join the military? Do I explain that he needs to really think about what major he picks when he goes off to college, or do I tell him to skip college altogether and stick with learning a trade like plumbing or electricity? It would ensure that he had a solid financial future and keep me from ever needing to set up shop at the campground.

Maybe in a different life we could be successful. I mean, I can’t guarantee that it would be an easier life, or one that I’d find even familiar, but it could be better. I could have a steady job, family, car, and respect. This was a chance for me to turn all of those ‘what-ifs’ that kept me up at night into reality. Had I taken the door on the left instead of the right. If I had gone straight to college without joining the military. If only x instead of y.

The problem is, when I try to identify the best scenario and map out the choices, I uncover more potential wrong turns. I mean, if I tell him to stay out of the military, he will miss the years I spent living abroad or the stint that I did with the United Nations following the earthquakes in Iran.

He would never meet some of the people that became friends and co-adventurers. He’d never meet Old Gary and learn about the donation bin. He’d never fall in and have this opportunity to visit the past.  

I could tell him to focus his efforts on learning about computers and programming so that he can have a chance at a good paying job when he gets older. Tell him to stay away from alcohol and drugs, save his money, etcetera.  I laughed at that one spontaneity is why I am who I am. Not only that, but I suck at math and programming would probably kill my soul.

Look at me out there. I’m twirling and twirling in my own world with an honest ear-to-ear grin. Not a care in the world. We could win the game, we could lose, it didn’t matter. I was having fun.  

Hell, why do I need to talk to myself at all? Sure, my life didn’t turn out the best, but who’s to say that any of this is written in stone? Who is to say that talking to myself won’t just make things worse or make any difference at all? Instead of giving this kid a profound moment of growth, I’d probably scare him into never leaving Fairbanks. That just isn’t fair to me. Why should I put the weight of the future onto the shoulders of a seven-year-old kid? I deserve to be happy in the moment, to experience everything that will come my way regardless of what hindsight is providing. Besides, maybe I’m the one who’s from another life. What right do I have to stop a kid from being that happy?

Now that I think about it, why am I worried? Worst case scenario, I live an ok life, travel a bit, and eventually find a magic clothing donation box that leads me back fifty years. Hell, this right here is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. There was a lot I wanted to do as a kid that I couldn’t because I was too young. Rather than mess everything up by trying to change the past, I just need to go start living my future.